Fern, however, didn't take her eyes from Jimmy. Her lips curled into a strange smile.
"What happened to her?" she asked.
"She died."
"How?"
"Kelly, that's enough," Clayton said forbiddingly. "You can't keep asking people personal questions, especially painful ones. It's not only impolite, it's . . . it's"—he glared down at Jimmy—"cruel."
"I didn't mean anything," she moaned.
"Just go up and do your homework, no matter how much time you have to do it," he commanded. She lowered her head and started away, turning once in the doorway to look back at us. Then she ran out and pounded her way up the stairs.
The moment she was out of earshot, Clayton stepped toward Jimmy.
"We had an understanding," he said. "That was the only way I would agree to this, and you knew it."
"I didn't say anything to ruin the farce," Jimmy replied disdainfully. Clayton shot a glance at Leslie, but she was looking down at the floor.
"I think you should just leave," Clayton said. "And I warn you, if you try to make any further contact with Kelly—"
"Don't threaten me," Jimmy said, standing up abruptly. His face was swollen with fury, his dark eyes as luminous as hot coals. I saw that he had clenched his hands into fists. His neck stiffened. Clayton Osborne took a step back. He felt the heat of Jimmy's anger, and for a moment he couldn't respond.
"I'm merely pointing out to you that you're treading on thin ice here. I was kind enough to permit this visit, but we don't want to do anything that will disrupt our relationship with Kelly. If it means applying for legal remedies, you can be assured we will do so," he added, regaining his composure. Jimmy simply glared at him.
"Thank you, Mr. Osborne," I said, rising. "I'm sorry there's been any trouble at all. Mrs. Osborne, thank you," I added, turning her way.
She smiled and stood up.
"It's difficult for everyone now, I know, but events have taken their course, and we must follow through for Kelly's sake as well as our own. In the end I'm sure you will agree it's been for the best," she said softly.
Her soothing tones eased Jimmy. He relaxed, and the crimson left his cheeks. He nodded at her, and then we started out of the house. When we reached the front door I turned back and looked at the stairway. I was positive I saw Fern kneeling at the top, gazing at us from under the balustrade. Without so much as a good-bye Clayton Osborne closed the door behind us.
"I hate that kind of guy; I've always hated them," Jimmy muttered as we walked down the stone stairway. "Somehow, some way. ."
"Jimmy, don't aggravate yourself now. I don't know if you can do anything at this point. Just as he said, the law is on their side, not ours."
"It doesn't seem right, Dawn. Not to be able to tell her who we are, not even now," he complained. "Damn." He looked back at the townhouse door. "Even though they're obviously rich people, I don't feel we're leaving her in a good home," he added.
He took my hand, and we hurried up to the corner to catch a cab and return to our hotel. Shortly after we arrived there I called home to be sure everything was all right with Christie. Mrs. Boston put her on the phone, and we both spoke with her. She rattled on and on about her toy ranch house, but she didn't forget to ask if we were bringing her anything from this trip.
"Now, Christie Longchamp, you know it's not nice to ask for things," I said. "Especially after you've just gotten such a wonderful present."
"You sound just like Clayton Osborne," Jimmy complained from the sidelines. "We can bring her a little something."
"Your father is spoiling you," I told her, my eyes on Jimmy. He laughed at the fire in them.
"Okay, okay," he said, holding up his hands and backing away. "Whatever you say."
After we spoke with Christie and Mrs. Boston we decided to shower and dress for dinner. The emotional and traumatic events of the day had been overwhelming for both of us, and we both looked forward to a fine, elegant dinner and the chance to relax. I had been toying with the idea of calling and perhaps even visiting with Mrs. Liddy and Agnes Morris, but I decided that it was probably not a good time. Jimmy's mind was too occupied with Fern. I didn't even call Trisha, because I knew she would want to meet us for dinner, and I didn't think Jimmy was in the mood for company, even though Trisha's effervescence might be just the antidote for melancholy we both required.
Jimmy couldn't stop talking about Fern while we were dressing.
"She sure looks a lot like Momma now, doesn't she?" he asked.
"Yes, she does. She reminds me of the one picture I have of Momma, the one with her standing under that tree," I said.
"That's right," he said excitedly. Then his face turned gray and sad again.
"At least we saw Fern and know she is healthy and well," I said.
"Healthy, yes. Well? I'm not so sure about her emotional and psychological health," Jimmy replied. "I've been thinking and thinking about the way Clayton Osborne spoke to her in our presence. I know he's a stuffed shirt and all, but it was like he was speaking to a servant or some orphan he was forced to take in. I didn't sense any love between them, did you?"
"I don't know, Jimmy. I don't know if it's fair to judge him on one meeting like this. He was upset with Fern's behavior at school. Apparently she has been in trouble repeatedly. Maybe she needs some discipline. Leslie Osborne certainly seemed like a nice enough person, didn't she?"
"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly, "but Clayton's the one who rules that roost."
"She is being exposed to fine things and will have wonderful opportunities," I said.
"Sometimes that's not enough, Dawn. Clara Sue was certainly exposed to nice things and wonderful opportunities, and look how she turned out. No, there's something missing in that house, something warm and necessary. Hell, as mean and as bad as Daddy could be sometimes, he still looked at us in a way that made us feel he cared in a pinch, didn't he?"
"Jimmy," I said softly, "I'm afraid you're just reaching, looking for something wrong. There's nothing we can do now, nothing," I said.
He nodded and lowered his head in defeat. I didn't like saying it so firmly, but I saw no other way. In silence we continued to get dressed. However, just as we were both ready to leave and had started toward the door, we heard a knock. We looked at each other, wondering who that could be. We hadn't called anyone in New York, and we had just spoken with the hotel, so we didn't expect any messages. Jimmy stepped forward to open the door.
There stood Fern, dressed in a dark blue wool jacket and jeans with a beret on her head. Jimmy gaped in astonishment, and for a moment he couldn't speak.
"Kelly, dear," I said. "What are you doing here?"
"I ran away," she declared proudly.
"Ran away? Why? And why would you come running to us?" I asked.
"Because I know who you really are," she replied.
14
TOGETHER AGAIN
MY POUNDING HEART TOOK MY BREATH AWAY, AND FOR A moment all I could do was speak in a loud whisper.
"Come in and sit down," I said. Fern glanced at Jimmy, who looked absolutely stunned, and then walked quickly to the sofa in the sitting room of our suite. She unbuttoned her coat, scooped the sock hat off her head, and shook out her hair. I sat down, but Jimmy remained standing, his eyes locked on Fern. From the way he stared, I knew he saw Momma in her eyes and hair, Momma in her gestures. Some of my own precious memories of Momma came rushing back. They brought tears to my eyes.
"It's pretty here," Fern said, gazing around. "A friend of mine, Melissa Holt, stayed here once with her father, and I came to visit her. Her father took us both to dinner and then to the circus! Her parents are divorced, but her mother has a new husband," she continued. "Melissa hates him. She wants to run away from home and live with her real father," she concluded.
Her lack of inhibition and her obvious comfort and ease in our presence brought a small smile to Jimmy's lips. He finally sat down and folded his hands in his lap.
"How did you
find out the truth about yourself and us?" Jimmy asked.
"I snuck a peek at Clayton's important papers one day and found my birth certificate and the adoption papers," she replied with a shrug. "I didn't know I would find those things. I don't snoop," she said, turning more to me, "but I was bored doing tons and tons of stupid homework and just went exploring."
"Weren't you afraid your parents would find you looking into their things and be upset?" I asked.
"Leslie was at her studio, as usual, and Clayton was at a dinner meeting with some clients."
"They left you home alone?" Jimmy asked.
"Uh-huh. They do that a lot, because Clayton has to go somewhere and Leslie is supposed to come right home from her studio, but she gets so busy with her paintings, she forgets the time. Sometimes Leslie even forgets to eat! She forgot Clayton's birthday, too, and mine, and last week she forgot she left Snoogles in her bedroom, and he wet the carpet in three places."
"Snoogles?" I asked.
"Their poodle," Jimmy guessed.
"Leslie named him Snoogles, but Clayton named me Kelly Ann after his mother," Fern said. "She was dead before Clayton and Leslie adopted me."
"Do you always call your parents by their first names?" I asked.
"They're not really my parents," she replied, her dark eyes bright with anger. "So I don't care."
"You mean you started calling them by their first names after you made that discovery?" I pursued.
"Oh, no, I always called them by their first names. It's what they wanted. They're . . ." She paused to search for the term. As she did so, she ran her tongue over her lips, a gesture that widened Jimmy's smile. It was something Momma Longchamp used to do, also without being aware of it, whenever she was deep in thought. "Progressive parents," she finally concluded. "They have loads and loads of these books on how to bring up a child and have studied up on it. I guess it's mostly Clayton, though. Leslie didn't read the books. She just listens to whatever Clayton says.
"Clayton's always complaining about her," she continued, "complaining about her missing appointments or being late or not looking after the house and me.
"That's one of his favorite complaints," she added, widening her eyes. "They even had a fight about it after you left today."
"What sort of fight?" Jimmy asked.
"He blamed her for what happened at school and told her she doesn't take enough interest in my education," she responded.
"What did happen at school?" I asked.
"Jason Malamud's science project burned up in the lab." "What?" I looked with concern at Jimmy.
"Well, it was something electrical, and it shorted out or something, only he claimed I did it, and the teacher believed him because he's the teacher's pet."
"Did you do it?" I asked. She returned my gaze firmly.
"Absolutely not. And I'm tired of being blamed for things that other people do," she moaned. "I hate that school. It's full of . . . spoiled rich kids."
"Sounds like a complaint I once had about the Emerson Peabody School," Jimmy said, and he winked at me. He was pleased with the similarity of their complaints; it was almost as if he believed it was in their blood.
"Why would Jason blame you, though?" I asked.
"Because he hates me, ever since I told everyone how he made in his pants. He tried to hide it by saying he was sick and going to the nurse."
Jimmy laughed.
"How long have you known the truth about yourself and us?" I asked.
"A couple of years, I guess," she said, shrugging again. "I don't remember the exact date. It was before Christmas, think. Uh-huh, before Christmas that year," she confirmed, nodding. "Clayton bought me a set of encyclopedias, but I wanted the dollhouse I saw in Macy's window."
"It's been years? Did you ever ask them about it?"
"Oh, no. Clayton would be furious if he knew I had gotten into his precious secret papers. He has them under lock and key, but one day I saw where he put the key. I never mentioned anything," she said, shaking her head, her eyes wide again.
"Well, they are still legally your parents," I pointed out. "They have raised you and provided for you, and."
"I hate them!" she cried. "Especially Clayton."
Jimmy's smile evaporated, and he leaned forward, cutting his eyes toward me sharply and then looking at her.
"He just wants what he thinks will be good for you," I explained. "He seems like a very intelligent man and a successful man, so—"
"He's mean and cruel," she cried. "Ail my friends think so. They hate to come to my house. He asks everybody hundreds of questions and makes them feel bad. Then he tells me my friends are no good and too old for me, and he forbids me to go to their houses or go to the movies with them or—"
"I'm sure he's just looking out for you, thinking of your best interests, honey," I said. "Usually when a girl your age pals around with kids much older, she gets into trouble. I'm sure he's worried about you and trying to do the right thing."
She looked from Jimmy to me and then covered her face with her hands. "He does bad things to me!" she blurted out.
"What?" Jimmy nearly jumped out of his seat. "What do you mean, does bad things? What sort of bad things?"
She shook her head and started to cry. I went to her quickly.
"Don't cry, honey," I soothed. "Tell us what you mean. We can't help you if you don't explain," I said. I put my arm around her. She buried her face in my shoulder.
"I can't," she mumbled. "It's too . . . nasty."
"Dawn!" Jimmy was on his feet.
I nodded, closing and opening my eyes so Jimmy would remain calm and let me question her more closely.
"You know now that Jimmy is your brother, honey. I'm his wife, but we grew up together, and I took care of you from the day you were born until we all split up."
"You did?" she said, straightening up.
"Uh-huh. You used to love when I sang to you. Momma became very ill, and I had to help out. I'll tell you all of it, how Jimmy and I thought we were brother and sister for years and years and how we discovered we weren't, yet we realized we were in love. We'll tell you all about your real mother and father."
"What happened to them?" she asked quickly.
"Momma's dead," Jimmy replied. "Daddy's okay, but he's remarried and has a new son, so you have another brother. His name is Gavin."
"Well, why didn't I live with my real father? Why did he give me away?" she cried, the tears still streaming down her face. I took out my handkerchief and wiped them off her tender cheeks.
"He didn't give you away; you were taken away by the courts. We're going to tell you all of it, honey, but you have to trust us, too, and tell us what you mean when you say Clayton does bad things to you. What sort of bad things? How long has this been happening?"
She swallowed hard, closed her eyes and sat back. Jimmy sat down again to listen.
"As long as I can remember, I guess," she began, her eyes closed. She wiped away her remaining tears and continued. "Clayton was the one who took care of me most of the time because Leslie was always busy with her paintings. Clayton often used to dress me and give me baths." She closed her eyes again and then opened them quickly and fixed her gaze on Jimmy. "He still does," she said.
Jimmy's face turned so crimson, I thought the top of his head would burst into flames.
"What?" he cried. "Still does?"
"You're old enough to give yourself baths," I said, my voice almost a whisper again.
"I know I can do it myself, but he always comes in on me and tells me I don't wash myself properly. He says I miss the important places," she said. "And when I once tried to lock the door, he got furious and pounded and pounded on it until I had to get out of the tub and open it."
I swung my gaze to Jimmy. He was on the edge of his seat and looked as if he would leap off any moment and go charging out the hotel room door. Maybe even charge through it! His neck was taut, and his eyes were bulging.
"I knew when I first set eyes on that guy�
�"
"Jimmy, don't jump to any conclusions," I advised. "Jump to any conclusions? Listen to her," he said, holding his hands out toward Fern.
I nodded and turned back to her.
"Do you know what you're telling us, dear, what you seem to be saying?"
She nodded.
"Your father . . . Clayton . . . comes in on you when you're taking a bath and touches you?" She nodded again.
"He makes me stand up and turn away from him. I close my eyes because I can't stand it anymore," she said. "He takes the washcloth and starts down my back, but soon his hands come around and . . ."
She covered her face with her hands again and sobbed. I embraced her and pulled her to me, rocking her gently and stroking her hair.
"It's all right now. It's all right," I assured her.
"You're damn right it's all right now. She's finished with that," Jimmy swore. He stood up, pulling his shoulders back and throwing his chest out. "I want to go see this man immediately," he declared.
"Wait, Jimmy. Let's do this right so we don't make things worse. Let me call Mr. Updike and get some legal advice, find out what we have to do," I begged. "If you go charging off, you might ruin it."
His face relaxed a bit, but he kept his posture stiff and his fists clenched.
"Go call him, then," he commanded.
"Why don't you go to the bathroom, honey, and wash your face?" I said to Fern.
"Okay," she said. "But I'm scared. He's going to be so mad I told you. He made me swear I would never tell anyone. You won't make me go back there to live, will you?
Please don't make me," she begged, her mouth twisting with apprehension. She looked positively terrified.
"You're not going back there. Not now, not ever," Jimmy promised. "Don't you worry about that or about him," he added, nodding.
She smiled through her tears. I helped her up and directed her to the bathroom. Then I went to the phone. Jimmy stood by my side as I called Mr. Updike.
As soon as I explained where we were and what we had learned, Mr. Updike referred us to a New York attorney he knew, a Mr. Simington, who told us we would have to contact the child welfare agencies and ask for an investigation. He said that the seriousness of the situation would make it impossible for things to be done overnight.
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